I Worked the Returns Hotline and a Man Tried to Return His Wife

I worked the returns hotline for a big furniture chain, which is a call center that exists entirely to serve a store, meaning I got the exact worst of both worlds -- the misery of the phones and the chaos of retail returns, combined, for twelve dollars an hour.

Most calls were normal. A wobbly table. A couch that came in the wrong color. A bed frame missing the one bolt that holds the entire concept of "bed" together. You learn to process a return in your sleep. You learn the policy like scripture. And then, one gray afternoon, a man called and opened with a sentence I was not trained for.

"I need to return my wife," he said.

There was a pause. On my end, obviously. He seemed very calm about it.

"I'm sorry," I said, going straight to the script because the script is a life raft, "can you tell me the item you're looking to return today?"

"My wife," he said again. "Her side. I need to return her side of it."

And slowly, the way the sun comes up, I understood. He was talking about the bed. Specifically, one of our adjustable split mattresses -- the kind where each side moves independently, so two people can each have their own firmness, their own angle, their own little kingdom. His and hers. And the "hers," he explained, in a voice that was trying very hard to stay flat, was no longer needed. Because she was gone. Not gone gone. Just -- gone. Moved out. Two weeks ago. Took the dog.

Now I want to be clear, this is a comedy story, but there was a moment there, right in the middle of it, that was not funny at all. Because this man did not want a refund. Not really. He wanted to make one part of his enormous, empty, half-firm bed stop reminding him of a person. And the only mechanism he had for that, the only customer service line open to his grief at two in the afternoon, was me. The returns hotline.